Paul Doherty: The Poison Maiden

‘Nobody,’ he replied, ‘at least to our knowledge.’ He gathered up the dead man’s possessions in a bundle, came across, and stood over me. ‘Mathilde, I recognise the problems if it was murder. Who knew Chapeleys was in my chamber at Westminster? Who killed him? How so expertly, so quickly? How did the assassin get in that room, attack an armed man who would certainly have resisted, and overcome him so soundly, so expertly, with no sign of force or disturbance. He then arranged Chapeleys’ hanging and disappeared just as mysteriously. Chapeleys may have admitted him into the chamber, but why? He was frightened, under strict orders from us to be vigilant. And if he made a mistake why did he then not resist?’ Demontaigu paused at a knock on the door. The Keeper of the Dead shuffled in.

‘If he took life by his own hand,’ he murmured, gesturing at the corpse now covered in a shroud, ‘he cannot be buried in God’s Acre.’

‘Come, Brother.’ Demontaigu picked the coins up from the table. He went over and thrust them into the lay brother’s hands whilst placing Chapeleys’ meagre possessions at his feet. ‘If no one claims the corpse, and I doubt they will, these are yours. Why cause a fuss?’

‘How did he die?’ the keeper asked.

‘I do not know, Brother,’ I insisted. ‘That is the truth!’

‘When did he die?’

I glanced back at the corpse. The flesh was cold but the limbs were still soft. The freezing weather had drained the warm humours. The keeper’s question was pertinent. Had Chapeleys been killed before the feast or during it? Had someone from our banquet slipped away and carried out the dreadful act? But if so, how was it done? I simply shook my head.

‘Brother, I am unable to answer that.’

We were about to leave when there was a disturbance outside. The door was flung open and an irate Berenger strode into the chapel. Servants followed, carrying another corpse under a cloak. The keeper, clucking his tongue at how busy he’d become, hastily directed the bearers to an empty table. A grey-haired woman followed, sobbing uncontrollably; others entered, led by a young man who looked terror-stricken, his pimply white face sweating as he loudly protested his innocence. As the keeper went over to console the sobbing woman, Berenger shouted for silence. Something about the distraught woman caught at my heart; she reminded me of my own mother. I went across, pulled back the cloth and stared down at the corpse of a young woman dressed in a faded green gown. Long auburn hair hid her face, which tilted sideways. I pushed the hair back and stared at the horror: once comely, her face was the same livid hue as Chapeleys’, mottled and slightly swollen, eyes popping, tongue sticking out due to the garrotte string tied tightly round her soft white throat. I drew my own dagger and cut the cord; the corpse jerked as air was expelled and, for a heartbeat, silenced the clamour in the death house. Another young woman, black hair tied tightly back behind her head, lean, spiteful and full of anger, pushed her way through. She screamed accusations at the young man, who simply flailed his hands and shook his head. Once again Berenger shouted for silence.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘The dead woman is Rebecca Atte-Stowe.’ Berenger apparently decided to swallow his pride and speak to me. ‘She was a serving wench in the buttery and pantry.’ He gestured around at the clamour of accusation. ‘She was found as you have seen her, in a storeroom where the maids keep their aprons, caps and gloves for use in the kitchens. Anyway, she was to help with the feast but hadn’t been seen since the Vesper’s bell.’

I stared down at the corpse. ‘She must have disappeared shortly before the banquet began.’ I went over and pressed my hand against her face; the flesh was cold. I lifted an arm; it was still supple. ‘She’s probably been dead for some hours,’ I declared. I beckoned Berenger away from the shouting and crying. ‘What’s happening?’ I whispered. ‘That black-haired woman so full of fury?’

‘Anstritha, Rebecca’s friend. She maintains that Robert Atte-Gate, a groom from the stables, was sweet on Rebecca. Earlier today he and Rebecca quarrelled. .’ Berenger’s voice faded away as if he was already bored by the proceedings, more concerned that once again he’d been disturbed in his pleasures by sudden, mysterious death. I returned to the mortuary table and scrutinised the poor girl’s fingers. The clamour continued behind me, rising to screams and shouts.

‘It’s not me! I’ve done no crime!’

I whirled round. Robert, his face sweat-soaked, had retreated from the rest, drawing a dagger from his belt.

‘Put down your weapon!’ Berenger thundered, ‘To draw a dagger on a royal officer in the king’s own palace is treason. If you don’t hang for murder, you will for that!’

Anstritha cackled with laughter. Robert lunged towards her but stumbled. The men-at-arms seized him and dragged him outside. Berenger declared he’d done more than his duty for one evening and followed. Anstritha, her face full of malicious glee, almost hopped to the door. The rest filed out, leaving Rebecca’s mother sobbing over the corpse. I went and put an arm around her shoulders.

‘What happened?’ I asked softly. ‘Do you really believe Robert murdered your daughter?’

‘No,’ she whispered through her tears.

I picked up the cut garrotte string, fine twine like that of catgut. ‘Nor do I,’ I murmured. ‘This is more the work of a skilled assassin than a stable boy, but why should your poor Rebecca be his victim?’

The mother could not answer that. Demontaigu and I gave some money to the keeper and left. We walked away from the Death House. I paused and stared up through the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night: the barking of a dog, the creak of a cart, the slamming of doors and the ringing of bells. I stared around. Here and there the blackness was pierced by lights flaring at windows or peeping through shutters.

‘Tomorrow,’ I whispered.

‘Tomorrow?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ I quoted. ‘Bertrand, I am tired. My mind teems; it swerves and shifts without reason.’

Demontaigu escorted me back to Burgundy Hall, where the laughter and music showed the festivities were continuing. He kissed me on the brow, clasped my hands and whispered at me to join him for his Jesus mass. As he hurried away, he murmured something else.

‘Bertrand,’ I called. ‘What did you say?’

He turned and grinned. ‘You, Mathilde, are honey-sweet.’

I went through the gatehouse, past the guards, still enjoying the compliment as a chamberlain ushered me up the stairs, along the gallery to my mistress’ lodgings, a collection of chambers consisting of vestibule, antechamber, parlour and bedchamber. I was primly informed that the queen had retired but had been asking for me. Isabella was in her bedchamber, a dark-panelled room with heavy oaken furniture: tables, stools, aumbries and chests. The large bed was a stark contrast, brilliantly adorned with blue and gold drapes and coverlets fringed with silver. Isabella was sitting at a small table ringed in a glow of candle prickets with a chafing dish full of burning coals providing warmth. She was dressed simply in a white shift, shoulders and feet bare. I noticed the red scratch marks on her right arm; the skin looked irritated. She was more concerned in fashioning small images, using the candle flame to soften the wax, pushing it intently, decorating the figurines with scraps of cloth, parchment and small items of jewellery. I recognised the signs. Isabella was deeply agitated. She glanced up as I went to curtsy.

‘I have been looking for you, Mathilde. I had to tend to myself, though I did talk to Marie.’ She pushed back her hair.